


Home Visit

by okapi



Series: Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics) [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Horror, Drugged Sex, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Genderswap, Lovecraftian, Nightmares, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Self-Harm (Mycroft), Tentacles, Vaginal Penetration, anal penetration, urethral Penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft wakes up feeling slightly under the weather. The family physician makes a home visit.</p><p>An attempt at Lovecraftian horror for Halloween. Genderswap. Non-con/v dub-con tentacle slash.<br/><b>Please heed the tags for potential triggers.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Visit

“Good morning.”

Mycroft stood up as John entered the study. She motioned to a chair.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson. How kind of you to come on short notice.”

John glanced around the room.

_No tea. Christ, it is serious._

John sat. Mycroft sat.

“What can I do for you?”

“I am in need of a clinical opinion. I woke up this morning feeling slightly under the weather.”

_Which is Holmesian for ‘half-dead.’_

“You do look pale. Symptoms?” _Lean forward. ‘Concerned doctor’ expression._

“Nausea, elevated pulse and respiratory rate, at times, but the primary symptom...well, it’s better to show you. Please, if you will, follow me.”

Mycroft led John out of the study and up stairs. They entered the master bedroom, and Mycroft paused to remove her suit jacket and hang it on a valet stand. The toilet was enormous, with large mirrors and low counters on both sides of the room. Mycroft unbuttoned her shirt, pulled it from her trousers, and let it hang from her arms. She turned her back to John.

John frowned.

Slits, like surgical incisions, ran in two parallel columns on either side of Mycroft’s spine.

_She’s had a series of abscesses removed. Many abscesses._

“Two, four....”

“Twelve, in total,” said Mycroft as her shirt fluttered to the floor.

_Highly unlikely, given their location and the precision of the cuts, but I have to ask._

“Self-inflicted?”

“No.”

John touched the topmost slit.

“Oh!”

A finger-sized ribbon of flesh emerged. It was dark grey and wriggled like a thin garden snake, extending to the edge of Mycroft’s shoulder. The outer tip narrowed to a small bud with a pore-like opening.

“Mycroft!”

_Keep it together, Doctor. Treat this like any other clinical assessment._

_Poker face. Poker voice. Poker...everything._

“It looks like a...”

“Tentacle?” suggested Mycroft.

“Yes. Can you control it?” asked John.

“Minimally.” Mycroft leaned on the edge of the counter. She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. The tentacle flew back into the opening like a recoiled measuring tape.

John palpated slowly down the right side of Mycroft’s back.

“Is it inside your thoracic cavity? Displacing internal organs? Any pain? Shortness of breath?”

“No.”

John continued her examination, pressing fingers gently up the opposite side of Mycroft’s spine.

“I don’t feel it, Mycroft. It’s almost like it dissolved when it retracted. Are there more?”

At once, twelve tentacles appeared like worms surfacing in newly-turned earth.

_Holy Mary!_

John cleared her throat and took a deep breath. She spoke slowly, enunciating every word.

_Stay objective, Watson. When all else fails, state the obvious, Sherlock be damned._

“They increase in diameter and decrease in length from neck to waist. I am going to touch one. Okay?” Their eyes locked in the mirror; fear and apprehension were etched on Mycroft’s face.

“Okay.”

John ran a finger along one of the middle tentacles, which had the thickness of a large thumb. “Feels like muscle underneath. Maybe on the tip, some cartilage. The exterior doesn’t feel like human skin, Mycroft. More like...amphibian...or...reptile...shark, perhaps? Soft, but with a texture.”

_Some kind of mutation..._

“Don’t trouble yourself searching for comparisons with the natural world,” remarked Mycroft. “I fear there might not be any.” Then she sighed in a way that John had heard many times from across test-results-littered desks and along bleak, fluorescent-lit corridors.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” John winced at the feeble sound of her words.

_Finish your examination, Doctor! Focus!_

John rubbed her thumb along the underside of the tentacle. “Nerve-endings?”

Mycroft bit her lip. Then, she said stiffly, “Far too many.”

The tip of the tentacle curled around John’s finger and tugged. John chuckled. “Hello,” she said conversationally, offering it a makeshift handshake. “There’s some kind of secretion.” John examined one of the large base tentacles, which were the size of her wrist. She rubbed the residue between her fingers. “Mucus?” She held it to her nose. “No smell.” One of the small tentacles traced John’s lower lip. “Umm...” John licked her lip. “Slightly sweet.”

“I am not directing it, Dr. Watson. But I can feel what it feels. What it _wants_ ,” said Mycroft.

_What it wants? Like it’s a separate being. Parasite?_

A tentacle touched her cheek, drawing wet, warm circles on John’s face. John pursed her lips and jutted out her chin resolutely.

_Stay professional, Watson. You are a physician and a soldier. Focus!_

It meandered to her ear, investigating like a buzzing mosquito. “Hey, stop it!” She batted it with her hand, and it retracted half-way into its burrow-slit.

_Focus!_

“You travel all the time, Mycroft, around the world. Any odd exposures? Chemicals? Toxins? Tour any top-secret laboratories?”

Mycroft shook her head. “I’ve been in the office for the last six weeks. Last trip was to Madrid. Nothing unusual.”

John inhaled deeply and rubbed a flat hand down her face. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll need some supplies. I’ll get a swab of the secretion. Lots of samples: blood, urine, stool, hair. X-ray, ultrasound of the back....”

The two smallest tentacles twisted behind John’s neck and pushed up into her hair, ruffling it. John swatted at them with her hand. They swatted back.

“Hey!” exclaimed John. “Cheeky little things!”

The two tentacles curled up like cobras in front of John’s face. Like prey, John froze. The tip of each approached and pressed softly to each side of John’s face.

“Oh, well, you’re forgiven...” said John.

_Doctor, you are officially cracking. Back to work!_

“Alright...,” began John.

Suddenly, the base tentacles wrapped around John’s legs like vines, pulling her closer to Mycroft.

“Mycroft!”

“ _It wants...it wants..._ ,” panted Mycroft, gripping the counter tightly.

Four tentacles wrapped around John’s waist and thighs, pinning her to Mycroft’s back. Two held her wrists to Mycroft’s sides. The smaller tentacles made short work of John’s shirt, vest, and bra, pushing through material. Scraps of fabric scattered to the floor.

In the next moment, they were everywhere, that is, the six tentacles that weren’t engaged in immobilizing John. They caressed her back and shoulders, curling under her armpits, winding up her neck into her hair. They explored every curve, hollow, and nook of John’s upper body.

“It feels...kind of...extraordinary,” said John. “Terrifying, but extraordinary.”

“I can sense your fear and your wonder,” replied Mycroft. “Through them. _Somehow_.”

The grip on John’s wrists loosened slightly. She watched the smallest tentacles wind around each breast, encircling flesh and nipple. They squeezed, coiling and uncoiling, with a synchronized, pulsing rhythm.

“Uh, usually someone has to buy me a drink first...”

“Dr. Watson...”

“If ever there was a time for gallows humour, Mycroft, _this is it!_ ”

The grip on John’s wrists tightened anew, and the smallest tentacles abandoned her breasts in order to snake up her chest. A middle tentacle pulled John’s head back; another pulled her chin in the opposite direction. John watched wide-eyed as one thin tentacle rose above her like a water spout. A drop of amber liquid fell from its tip into her gaping mouth.

Honeyed warmth registered on John’s tongue. The tentacles released her head, and she swallowed instinctively. All John’s muscles had relaxed; her forehead hit Mycroft’s back. The two small tentacles crawled in and out of her hair at will.

A medium-sized tentacle popped the button of her trousers. Then, three pushed the fabric apart and slipped inside.

_Jesus. Fucking. Christ._

Heat spread to John’s core as they penetrated her orifices. The initial physical discomfort of probing dissolved into a vague, forbidding sense of being systematically, wholly and completely _occupied_. Three tentacles continued to caress John’s outer body, synchronizing their rhythm and tempo with the three advancing deeper and deeper within her, moving like files of army ants, with singular trajectory and purpose.

_Invasion? Colonization? What does that make me?_

John’s tongue licked the honey that was being painted on her lips. Her fear drowned in more warmth. She struggled to think.

“ _John_...” Mycroft’s voice was faint, distant, _immaterial_.

In an instant, all twelve stilled.

John sucked in a sharp breath and held it.

" _OH!_ "

A supernova exploded within John. Every nerve-ending telegraphed light and heat and vibration. Like the steep drop of cosmic roller coaster into swirling constellations of stars, it was exhilarating and frightening, a free-fall into the unknown. Then, as quickly as it had materialized, the sensation evaporated.

John watched with numb emptiness as the twelve tentacles retreated into Mycroft. The smallest two curled around her cheeks in farewell gesture.

_What just happened?_

_I didn’t come. It came. In me._

John stared down at her own body as one would at a horrific roadside accident. She rubbed her wrists, rolled her shoulders, and pulled the sides of her trousers together self-consciously.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Suddenly, she felt weak and lightheaded. Bile rose in her throat.

“Mycroft!”

She shoved Mycroft aside and vomited into the sink. When the waves of nausea broke, she ran the tap and drank directly from the stream.

“I’m okay.”                                                                                                                                        

_Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll be true._

“John.”

John looked up.

“You’re _not_ okay.”

John frowned.

“It wants to _reproduce_.”

John’s gaze followed Mycroft’s to the back mirror. She watched as two tiny slits appear on the smooth surface of her back. She counted with horror.

_Two, four, six..._

And then the tentacles emerged.

“ _MYCROFT!_ ”

* * *

John woke drenched in cold, clammy sweat. She heard the _pop-pop_ of gunfire in the distance and rolled to the floor. She opened her eyes.

_Darkness, cut with incandescent flickering. Television. Not Afghanistan._

She stumbled to the machine and turned it off. Then, she turned her head and screamed.

Sherlock stood in the entrance way to the sitting room, silhouetted by the hallway light.

“Christ! You scared the bloody shite out of me!” John crawled back to the sofa.

“You were calling my _sister’s_ name,” said Sherlock. “With a _variety_ of intonations.” John couldn’t be arsed to parse the anger from the concern in Sherlock’s tone.

“Sci-fi film festival. Nightmare.”

John waved Sherlock away with two arms. Then she hurled herself into the dark kitchen, groping for, and then finding, a glass and a bottle. She threw back two fingers of dark liquid, hissing as it scorched a path down her throat. She slumped into the kitchen chair and poured another.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ,” she said to the scratch in the kitchen table. Her forehead hit the wood with a _clunk_ , but she still felt Sherlock’s gaze. She growled over her shoulder. “Piss. Off. Can’t a woman go mad without an audience?!”

The hallway went dark. Footsteps. Bedroom door closing.

* * *

Even in her sleep, John sensed weight and warmth beside her. She reached for Sherlock like a frightened child, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry, so sorry, Sherlock.” John was naked. She had shucked her clothes when she finally tipped into bed, but had been too muddled to seek out nightwear.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the side of John’s neck, just below her ear. “S’okay, John. Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep. I’m here.” They were side-by-side, bodies pressed to each other. John felt skin and dressing-gown silk; she sighed and buried her head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, breathing in the familiar, soothing scent.

Sherlock stroked the short hairs at the nape of John’s neck. She pulled John by the waist so that breasts and nipples brushed skin. She tugged at John’s right leg so it curled up and around hers, slotting their hips snugly. She cupped John’s bottom, holding their lower halves securely together.

John sank back into deep slumber, revelling in the warm, tight, loving embrace—never once wondering _how_ Sherlock could cocoon her in such a warm, tight, loving embrace...

... _how she could stroke, pull, tug, cup_...

 _...all at once_...

 _...with only two arms_.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! Thank you for reading!


End file.
